Time, Space, And Interdimensional Travel
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: A collection of drabbles that I hope to continue to write as the opportunity presents itself.
1. Ex Girlfriend

A/N: This came to be as part of Prompt!night on tumblr, and I'm hoping it'll happen again. It was _fun_, to say the least.

* * *

><p>EX - GIRLFRIEND<p>

* * *

><p>"Peter Bishop," calls a falsely surprised voice behind his back as he sways ever so slowly on the back of the pub's dimly lit dance floor, Olivia supple and warm against his chest, his hands on the graceful curve of her lower back as she hides her face on the crook of his neck.<p>

His steps come to a stop at the voice though, the timbre and tone easily recognizable to his eardrum's muscle memory. He turns, Olivia still pressed halfway into his chest, but otherwise alert and wide-awake, irises of infinite green locked curiously on the person before them. This is going to be awkward, he can tell.

"Tess," he says, nodding in acknowledgement, suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. He has nothing to hide, no debts owed to anyone anymore, but he's still a man and having two of the three women that have left some sort of mark in who is, what he's become – alternate versions not withstanding – together in one place makes him want to turn around and hide in the bathroom until something explodes, like a five years old who's afraid of the dark and the monsters beneath the bed.

But he is ever the gentleman, and so cannot help but come forward to embrace the woman he used to know in an increasingly uneasy half hug. His other hand never leaves Olivia, be it by chance or an unconscious fear of her running away like sand between his fingers he'll never know.

"Tess, this is Olivia, my girlfriend," he says without a thought as he releases her. The other woman raises her eyebrows in an expression too exaggerated to be considered comical.

"My, my, Peter, I never thought I'd see the day," The blonde jokes, her eyes discretely scanning Olivia for a modicum of whatever it was Peter Bishop saw in her that made him keep her.

"Tell _me_ about it," Olivia intervenes, her hand deceptively loose around his waist, her burgeoning curiosity chaffing against the back of his neck, like another presence in the room, and Peter swears, by the tone of her voice that he has a long story to tell when they're alone.

She's enjoying this, if the lack of tension of her side against his chest and the continuous but gentle circles of her thumb under his shirt, right above his hipbone, is any indicator.

"So how did you manage to tame _him_, of all people?" Tess asks, ever the bold one.

"Oh, I didn't need to," The smile on her face is ferocious and warm, and it makes his insides tingle, "I tend to like the wild. Besides, I've found that tame often means increasingly boring."

As they continue to chat away as if he's not standing right beside him, all Peter thinks is that it is going to be a long night indeed.


	2. Grandchildren

GRANDCHILDREN

* * *

><p>Peter loves his father. He truly, honestly does, despite their many disagreements and his more than occasional eccentricities. It is his father after all, crazy as he is. The man that had loved him enough to save his life, no matter the consequences or things as insignificant as interdimensional barriers.<p>

But the fact that he loves the man does not mean that there aren't times when he fervently wishes that he did not have to live beneath the same roof and considerably more than four walls around them. Today, and for the past month or so to tell the truth, is one of those days.

That Olivia is in the room as Walter decides to, once more, go on a tirade on why regular sex is important for a healthy emotional relationship while going up the stairs to, in his own words, 'give them a little more privacy' on their unofficial movie night – slash – Christmas – eve – dinner (which Walter had graciously offered to cook and was promptly turned down after he mentioned how THC butter gave roast beef such an excellent taste) only adds to his ever enlarging list of reasons why living with Walter is something just as trying as saving a couple of universes one anomaly at a time.

"And son," Walter says from the door to his room, "tell Agent Dunham to forget about the contraceptives, the more the merrier!"

This is going to be an interesting Christmas.

* * *

><p>This one just turned right on the wrong exit on the highway, and here we are!<p> 


	3. Silver Blood

SILVER BLOOD

* * *

><p>They're not human, he'd told Walter. They're just machines, he'd said. They'd do worse to us if I gave them the chance, he'd said.<p>

He'd meant it, right then. He'd meant every word, every shot of his illegally acquired gun into fragile machinery, every stab of his knife into buttery flesh and a too – hard – to – be – flesh – and – bone spine.

Right now, alone in his room, in a creaking old house with his father just outside his door and the imagine of sorrow – filled evergreen burnt in his retinas he cannot help but wonder if this too is a lie. A lie for himself, and a lie for his own; a lie of convenience come from someplace dusty and dark not – so – deep inside himself.

Because the truth is that, in the half – light, there is blood on his hands. Silver and oily and unnatural, but blood nonetheless.


	4. Ice Cream

ICE CREAM

* * *

><p>Peter has never understood her love for cookie dough Ice cream.<p>

It's one of those simple things that manage to catch him by surprise and make him always stay on his toes where Olivia is concerned. It was one of the very first things that had attracted him to her like flame to a moth (besides the veritable constellations of freckles strewn around her face, her back and down those pale, never ending legs, and eyes so intense he'd have sworn there was no secret left that he could ever keep from her), that unique and effortless way with which she turns his every expectation on its head without preamble.

He might not understand it, always having preferred a rich chocolate or classic vanilla over fancy, overrated flavors,_ but_, Peter thinks – and it's a definitely important but – if she's willing to always kiss and lick it off his face like she does now, her tongue and lips warm and insistent and perhaps more erotic than anything he's ever felt before this moment, he will make sure to keep a liter of cookie dough ice cream in the fridge.


	5. Stubble

STUBBLE

* * *

><p>Before Peter, Olivia had never considered herself to be particularly attracted to stubble on a man. She'd always preferred, in the tiny, secluded part of her mind that was all – woman and no badge, clean – shaven chins and cheeks smooth to the touch.<p>

Mind her, she's never thought of herself as the kind of woman with a _type_, but every man she'd ever been with, few and far between, had been exceptionally careful in keeping their faces clear and clean.

Which is perhaps why the sensation of his roughened cheeks upon her skin is alien, and yet not – at – all unpleasant. It is, au contraire, as pleasurable as the burn of good whiskey down her throat, with the way his eyes of stormy blue bore into hers as he drags his chin down the pale expanse of her stomach and the sensitive skin on the insides of her thighs.

Accompanied by the incessant assault of his mouth on her flesh: nip, kiss, lick, nip, kiss, lick (lather, rinse, repeat); and the measured pressure of his hands beneath her knees, his movements perfectly in tune with the low humming she can't seen to keep inside her chest, she can't help but wonder what else she might have been missing out on all this time.


End file.
